The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership: Secrecy and the Politics of Immigration in Euripides' Ion

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published online 24 January 2013Political TheoryDemetra Kasimis

Ionof Immigration in Euripides's The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership: Secrecy and the Politics

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1Department of Political Science, California State University, Long Beach, CA, USA

Corresponding Author:Demetra Kasimis, Department of Political Science, California State University, 1250 Bellflower Boulevard, Long Beach, CA 90840. Email: [email protected]

The Tragedy of Blood- Based Membership: Secrecy and the Politics of Immigration in Euripides’s Ion

Demetra Kasimis1

Abstract

Classical Athens assimilated and disenfranchised a large, free immigrant pop-ulation of “metics” on the basis of blood, generation after generation. Yet immigration politics remain a curiously displaced context for interpreting ancient Greek political thought and its instructive criticisms of democratic citizenship. Accordingly, Euripides’s Ion—the only classical text devoted to exploring the founding myth Athens used to naturalize metics’ exclusion from citizenship–is underexamined by political theorists. Attending to the play’s metic figurations and historical-poetic contexts, this essay argues that the Ion is a hitherto unappreciated immigration fable about the paradoxes of blood-based citizenship. Drawing ultimately on the work of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, it shows that the tragedy is a still-relevant political critique of the practices of concealment and disclosure—so dominant in today’s U.S. immigration rights debate—that make political status look prior to and gen-erative of citizenship practice.

Keywords

metics, immigration, Euripides, blood, secrecy



2 Political Theory XX(X)

Secrecy has emerged as the operative discourse in the contemporary debate over the rights of undocumented immigrants in the United States. In recent years, states have fastened on the illegibility of legal status to promote a spate of stop-and-detain measures and public school checks that frames the undocu-mented experience as an act of deception—if not passing—best met by threats of exposure and increased surveillance.1 This logic of disclosure and conceal-ment has not exclusively serviced projects of criminalization, deportation, and decreased immigrant visibility. Undocumented activists demanding amnesty have also sought rhetorical and political leverage in its deployment, most notably by “coming out illegal” in support of the Dream Act.2 The co-optation of the basic vocabulary of the gay liberation movement enlists the closet, a taxonomic metaphor, in the ostensibly emancipatory project of acquiring a legal status for subjects whose daily lives already reflect and will continue to uphold national ideals of hard work, patriotism, and education. When immi-grants come out as illegal in pursuit of the practical benefit of status conferral, however, they conceive of the language of secrecy as merely privative rather than also productive of the very codes of identity they wish to contest.3

This disavowed effect of the immigrant’s turn to the closet is central insight offered, perhaps surprisingly, by my reading of Euripides’s Ion. The tragedy is the only sustained classical engagement with the myth of autoch-thony that democratic Athens used to justify expansion and disenfranchise immigrants, called “metics” (metoikoi), generation after generation on the basis of blood. Despite its political and historical significance, the play has been underexamined by political theorists.4 The apparent reason for this scant attention concerns the widely held view that the play solves its own conflict, thereby equivocating on its tragic and critical force. A recognition scene (anagnōrisis) between Ion and his estranged Athenian mother establishes peace where mistaken blood ties previously threatened familial violence. For many readers, the recognition gives the tragedy a happy ending, which restores Ion to his proper and formerly unknown identity as a fortunate native Athenian. Ion’s new blood knowledge sends him safely back to Athens, the city he left as a baby, where he is supposed to ensure the pure reproduction of the demos and its empire—the two dimensions of Athens’s self-conception espoused by the autochthony myth.

There may be a deeper interpretive issue standing in the way of the Ion’s reception in political theory, however. Political theorists share a curious ten-dency to displace the politics of immigration (metoikia) from the center of classical Greek theory.5 And in the Ion, I argue, figurations of metics are what lead to the play’s tragic implications about citizenship. No resolution to the play is ever reached, in my view, because the tragedy’s central politi-cal conflict actually lies elsewhere—not over the characters’ blood ties



Kasimis 3

themselves but in the problems that a premium on blood causes member-ship. Ion is actually made to reconceal the news of his Athenian blood as the condition of his return to Athens, its future as a democratic hegemony, and its colonization of Ionia. The tragedy does not close with the impending departure of a native son recovered but a metic whose nativity has been covered over. From this angle, the recognition scene no longer implies the happy restoration of political identity others take the play to espouse. For despite his bloodright, in Athens Ion will live as a metic.

Seen in this light, the Ion offers several enduring insights into the use of blood as a strategy for securing political membership. As Part I of the essay argues, Ion’s fate implies the possession of citizen status is not always a pre-requisite for the enjoyment of substantive citizenship, contrary to what the polis promises its natives.6 Yet the act of concealment that reveals Athens does not deliver on its civic promise is precisely what its perpetuity requires. Parts II and III investigate the theoretical implications of this maneuver’s incorpora-tion into the democracy’s founding myth. I argue that the secret functions to expose the Athenian prioritization of a status-oriented conception of member-ship. For the secret retroactively founds Athens as a political order in which membership is configured dyadically to mean a stable, hegemonic identity. The logic of concealment/disclosure invoked by the play establishes political membership as a fact that may be hidden or disclosed like the content of a secret, a status that may be known prior to and in spite of its performance.

My intentions in this essay are to begin restoring classical Greek thought to the politics of immigration and, more specifically, to animate the Ion’s explo-ration of the regulative power of secrecy in matters of political membership. But to read this critical reinterpretation of the autochthony myth as an immi-gration fable is also to voice a larger point about the reception of the Athenian polis and its self-conception. Without a theoretical engagement with the posi-tion and perspective of the metic, the founding myth of autochthony may appear to be an exclusively imperializing discourse. The myth was also a pow-erful domestic strategy of nativism, however, that shaped Athens’s interior, most obviously by naturalizing the exclusion of nearly a third of its resident population from citizenship, many of whom were native born.7 Indeed, metoi-kia and empire cannot be wholly disentangled in Athenian discourse—or in the Ion, as the next section attests—but it is important to try, precisely to see how the exceptionalist myth desires to displace the divisions it generates.

Calls to AthensThe Ion is a provocative reworking of the classical founding myth the Athenian demos popularized as a way of establishing its exceptionalism on




a notion of indigenousness acquired by blood. Initially, as Vincent Rosivach points out, the term autochthon was used to describe Athenians as a people that had always lived in their land.8 By the fifth century of Euripides’s pro-duction, Athenian autochthony had taken on a strong genealogical dimen-sion, symbolized by the incorporation of another longstanding origins story—the myth of Erichthonios, the early king and Athenian progenitor who was born from the earth itself.9 By “attributing to themselves collectively the autochthony of Erichthonios,” writes Nicole Loraux, citizens gained an exemplary status among Greeks as children of their civic soil.10 To claim all Athenians were born from the earth was to elide successive generations into one. This tactic of belying biological reproduction had in practice the oppo-site effect of entrenching its political value. Athens granted citizen status only to those who could persuasively claim an uninterrupted and uncorrupted blood tie to their native founder. Laws governing marriage, citizenship, and inheritance concretized the ideology’s emphasis on descent: on the basis of blood, they disenfranchised metics and their offspring. Only the children of freeborn natives were eligible for democratic citizenship.11

The two meanings of autochthony as original, uninterrupted habitation in a land and intergenerational purity of birth together service the exceptionalist account that Athenian democracy is founded in landedness, not mobility, and inheritance, not choice.12 To cast their descent from Erichthonios as a met-onym for their own chthonic origins was to deterritorialize citizenship but resacralize the territory. If ancestry provided for citizenship, children born in colonial outposts to citizen parents were Athenian citizens regardless of their participation. This superior claim of blood over residence, socialization, and social mobility was played out vividly in the domestic context, where Athenian-born children of metics inherited their deprivileged status despite a condition of assimilation and participation in Athenian civic life. Athenians born abroad thus came to mirror metics and metics Athenians. In the play, these two forms of social mobility are nicely instantiated in Ion’s duality: he is an autochthonous Athenian who will live as a metic before ruling Athens, just as he now lives abroad in Delphi.

The ideology of autochthony emboldened a citizenship politics concerned with ancestry through a discourse that transcended generational time so that each citizen could appear to be the unmediated offspring of the land. This figurative landedness made Athenians ethnically and culturally antecedent and superior to all other poleis, whose citizenries were the products of settle-ment, invasion, and migration. The concept of inherited immobility was use-ful because it could be reconciled with imperial expansion and the realities of its maintenance over time—in particular, the necessity of citizen birth



Kasimis 5

outside Athens. This emphasis on inherited immobility was, paradoxically, the way to license life in a condition of mobility.

Against this background, in 412 BC, Athenians found themselves humbled and weakened by a disastrous military campaign to Sicily waged as part of the Peloponnesian War.13 This was a dark period for Athens, writes Katerina Zacharia, with “civic morale shattered, faith in democracy . . . beginning to fail, and the dockyards and treasury . . . empty.”14 The ideology espoused by autochthony had promoted an expansionist policy whose realities were now leaving the myth and its implications vulnerable to scrutiny and contestation. In the midst of Athens’s awakening to the political and psychic costs of their bloodright, Euripides produced a rewriting of the founding myth that, like any mythopoetic encounter, bore opportunities for assessment and renewal.15

Set much earlier than the classical period, the Ion opens two generations after the original autochthonous birth of Erichthonios, with his daughter and grandson struggling to bear the burden of their lineage.16 Kreousa and her son Ion, the product of a rape by Apollo, are the first of generations of Athenians to face the problems that come with insuring one’s political identity stays tied to a particular ancestral heritage—a predicament classical audiences would have recognized. All the action in the Ion is dominated by attempts to conceal or disclose what are supposed to be permanent and unalterable details of the characters’ kinship relations to each other. In the Ion’s dramatic world, how-ever, blood ties emerge as unstable disclosures of merely contingent truths that acquire ontological status by their circulation.

The action unfolds in Delphi around Apollo’s temple. Hermes opens the drama, relaying that years ago Apollo raped Kreousa near the Akropolis. She gave birth to Ion as a result but left the newborn baby to die (8–18).17 Unbeknownst to her, Apollo had Hermes rescue the child and bring him to Delphi, where he has been growing up since, ignorant of his biological par-entage (28–40). Kreousa has kept the incident a secret even from her eventual husband, a non-Athenian war hero named Xouthos (20, 57–58). When the audience meets them, the childless couple has just arrived from Athens to ask the oracle if they will procreate and continue their royal bloodline. The trip to Delphi, Hermes explains, was masterminded by Apollo to precipitate an encounter between Xouthos and Ion (64–68). Apollo’s plan is for Xouthos to mistake Ion as his own son and invite Ion back to Athens to be his heir. Ion will join the Athenian ruling class there and his descendants will go on to found Ionia, part of the fifth-century Athenian empire (69–75). Only once in Athens, or so Hermes thinks, should Ion be recognized by Kreousa as her biological son so that Apollo’s affair can stay safely concealed (72–73). Kreousa and Xouthos will then have their own biological children together.




But things do not go exactly according to Apollo’s original plan. Kreousa and Ion recognize each other while still in Delphi, and this provokes Athena to insist they keep their blood relation a secret from everyone, including Xouthos. For Athens to realize its democratic, hegemonic future, everyone must believe Ion is Xouthos’s long-lost biological son.

Two scenes raise the question of Ion’s homecoming and residence in Athens. In both scenes, the possibility of Ion’s departure is raised in light of his newly discovered biological identity. In both, at least one character speaks from the assumption that there is a stable correspondence between this blood knowledge and political identity. Yet on both occasions, shortly after each recognition scene, Ion’s political standing fluctuates: he moves from a status-less temple servant to an Athenian metic to an autochthonous Athenian back to an Athenian metic. In each case, Ion’s political membership is (re-)consti-tuted by some act of concealing or disclosing of status—what is supposed to be mere uncontroversial facticity.

Xouthos takes to heart the oracle’s insinuation that his first encounter out of the temple will be with his (long-lost) son (534, 536). This, conveniently, is Ion, who is incredulous of Xouthos’s disclosure and calls him “ignorant” (526). Xouthos asks his newfound son to come back to Athens with him, precipitating an argument two metics in Athens might have had about the costs and benefits of living there. Ion’s long reply, to which I return shortly, imagines his life as a metic in Athens to be without privilege and full of dan-ger, resentment, competition, and censure. In addition to the social discrimi-nation he would face, his arrival in Athens would cause Kreousa, his supposed stepmother, embarrassment and pain (617–20). He begs Xouthos to let him stay in Delphi where he is happy.

Xouthos is dismissive of Ion’s hesitance. He tells him to put an end to his speaking and focus instead on being successful (650). Given metics’ exclusion from public political speech and their reputation for economic prowess, the advice is appropriate. Xouthos does acknowledge the problem of Kreousa’s feelings and to this at least responds, “I’ll take you, as a sightseer, of course, and not as my son. For in fact I do not want to cause pain to my wife, childless as she is, while I am fortunate myself. But in time I shall grasp the right moment and induce my wife to allow you to inherit my rule over the country” (655–60). The proposal calls for the reconcealment of what Xouthos takes to be Ion’s newly found biological identity. The implication is that Ion will act as someone else, a tourist this time, not an immigrant looking to infiltrate Kreousa’s family/polis. The interaction ironically anticipates Athena’s closing dictum to Ion that he must reconceal his “real” autochthonous identity. That secret will fulfill a similar purpose, but it will keep Xouthos, not Kreousa, unsuspecting.



Kasimis 7

This is the first of several instances in which Ion, the quintessential Athenian descendant, acquires and then sheds a kinship identity, and it con-trasts sharply with the notion of permanence and transparency that the autochthonous twinning of ancestral and political identity purports to secure. The characters’ efforts to discover their blood ties at all costs may appear to underscore their belief in blood’s univocality, but the same characters—Xouthos in particular—also exhibit a perceptive grasp of how easy and nec-essary it will be to fake these natural identities from time to time. The plan to dupe Kreousa is the play’s first signal to blood’s inability to dictate member-ship in or as a practice. Ion may be Xouthos’s son, but, as Xouthos says, he does not have to act like it. No one will know the difference.

Still, secrets and lies cannot seem to undo autochthony. They may even work in its service. In order to affirm Ion as his birth son, privately for a while and then publicly in time, Xouthos asks that he pretend not to be his son. (Ironically, playing Xouthos’s son will turn out to be the role of Ion’s life-time.) The request to misrepresent the biological relation Xouthos thinks he has just restored suggests kinship’s instability, but it also attests to (Xouthos’s belief in) the forcefulness of blood to constitute and organize political soci-ety. That Ion should perform a role in spite of who he has learned he “is” indicates that Xouthos grasps the indecisive yet productive power of blood’s importance in Athens. Xouthos’s plan may express an awareness that one’s blood-based status in Athens is irresolvably unstable because it is performed, but this does not neutralize the political effects of blood’s invocation. The secret strategy to hide Ion’s identity as his birth son actually helps Xouthos establish the conditions necessary for perpetuating his ancestry within the polis’s kinship economy of membership. With Ion in Athens, Xouthos can hope to bequeath to his son the household he has married into. Like a good immigrant, Xouthos reproduces and exhibits his allegiance to the patriarchal order of inclusion that belongs to the host city he has done well by.

Unlike Perikles’s Funeral Oration, which, in Thucydides’s estimation, fig-ures Athenian hospitality as a source of civic pride for the polis that is open to all, Ion’s protestations present its exclusionary underside as equally (in)famous (History 2.39). The city may be open to foreigners but within the polis, hospitality has its limits. Athens incorporates autochthonous residents into the demos but keeps other residents disenfranchised. Foreigners, like Xouthos, willingly go to Athens to live despite these conditions and affirm the city’s attractiveness above and beyond the costs—censure, powerless-ness, danger. Ion rejects Xouthos’s invitation because these are costs from which no wealth can insulate. There will always be discrimination against the nonnative, he says: the law may establish some parity between an Athenian




and a successful, assimilated metic like Xouthos, but metics still experience exclusions that laws cannot capture. Ion suggests the myth of autochthony invests Athenians in a politics of belonging that extols proper parentage rather than participation in its institutions. In Athens, good blood displaces good character as the criterion for political inclusion.18 According to Ion, there is no way to live in Athens without feeling the effects of this coupling of blood and political identity. If he lived in Athens as a metic and a child born out of wedlock, Ion explains, he would always be inferior if not invisi-ble. Perhaps because he does not know he is fully autocthonous yet, Ion’s reply to Xouthos offers a heartfelt account of the metic point of view:

It is clear that things at a distance have a different appearance when seen close up. I welcome the way things have turned out, in that I have found you to be my father. But listen, father, to what has been on my mind. They say that renowned earth-born inhabitants of Athens are not a people brought in from outside. I shall land there suffering from two disadvantages: being the son of an outsider and being myself born out of wedlock. Burdened by this slur, if I stick to a position without influ-ence, I shall be spoken of as a nobody. But if I aim for a place in the first ranks of the city and strive to become someone, I will be detested by the powerless. Superiority causes offence. On the other hand, from all those who are sound as well as capable, but in their wisdom keep quiet and do not rush into the business of public life, I shall attract ridicule for being foolish, because I do not stay in the background in a city full of censure. . . . If I manage to acquire a standing superior to those again chroniclers having dealings with the city I shall be hemmed in by their votes. . . . Those who control cities and enjoy privilege are full of hostility towards any rival contenders. (585–606)

No way of living with honor appears open to Ion in Athens. How could one consent to inhabit the margins of political society when doing so would mean leading no (political) life, not just a restricted one? If in Athens he does not make himself invisible, he will engender the scorn of insiders who will. Athenians will block Ion’s political ascent and effectively disenfranchise him. And then there is Kreousa, whom the speech invokes in its most explicit identification of a metic’s way of living with death. “Moving into a strange house as an outsider to face a woman who is childless,” he will “incur hatred” from her, just as he would from the demos, and put himself and Xouthos at risk of murder (606–7, 611, 616–17).



Kasimis 9

For Xouthos, who adopts the conventional Periklean view in this interac-tion, all the difficulties of living in a foreign city can be overcome by wealth, which secures influence and safety in an adoptive city, as it would for Ion, who would inherit his. This idea holds no sway for Ion, who argues that money in the hands of a nonnative brings the same sorts of pains that politi-cal superiority does (630–31). Besides, it is not wealth that makes life worth living somewhere. In Delphi where Ion leads a life of “moderation,” things are good, better than Athens even (632, 645). There is peace, leisure, and happiness—not just for the few but for everyone. Why? Because everyone in Delphi is a foreigner (640). There is no myth of exceptionalism at work, no status to dole out.

Ion inhabits an outsider’s perspective more than once in this scene. He puts forward criticisms of Athens through a projected metic-ness that display a deep knowledge of the Athenian citizen’s view of outsiders. He criticizes wealth for being inadequate (for metics) to trump law and custom. And when he praises life in Delphi by contrast, he does not do so because he enjoys the privileges of an insider there.

The answer Xouthos gives Ion to all this is dismissive—“Enough of this talk! Learn to be happy!” (650). He begins planning Ion’s arrival despite the concerns Ion has voiced. He effectively talks past his son. That may be his new right as a father. But the incompatibility dramatized by their approaches to the conversation begs a prior question about the argument Ion has just given. Might Ion have talked past Xouthos, too?

Recall that it was the need for an heir that first motivated Xouthos’s invita-tion to Ion. Ion “will be seen” in Athens as eugenēs (“well born”) on account of his inheriting “life’s comforts.” Ion’s immigration is further justified for Xouthos by the simple fact of familial restoration. “For your part you have found what is most dear, though you did not know it earlier,” Xouthos says when he first sees Ion (571). But Ion thinks about his immigration differently—in terms of what it will mean for his everyday life above and beyond the mate-rial comforts and power a family tie to a foreign resident can secure. He talks past Xouthos not because he has not heard the blood reason Xouthos offers for his immigration but because he does not yet share his father’s view that this counts as a sufficient reason to act as he wants him to.

As a foreigner, Xouthos may never be a complete insider in Athens, but he buys into the polis order and represents its wishful self-conception as hospi-table, which may be true by comparison with some other poleis but not, as Ion has pointed out, by comparison with Delphi. When the news of their kinship relation opens lines of action and destiny as far as Xouthos is concerned, his




request of Ion bespeaks his Athenian sympathies. In Athens, blood matters. For Ion the situation is less certain, though: blood does not directly dictate a course of action. Even if Ion’s speech fails instrumentally (he does ultimately consent to going to Athens twice), it stages a gap between the status bestowed by a so-called fact of blood, such as Ion’s supposed tie to Xouthos, and the activity that should follow from it, Ion’s prospective metoikia.

This first broaching of Ion’s immigration may look like an ironic fore-shadowing of Ion’s eventual and seemingly proper repatriation at the end. The audience knows Ion is not really Xouthos’s son and that he should there-fore not be worried about his place in Athens. Indeed, his encounter with Xouthos provokes a series of dangerous mishaps that ultimately pushes Ion and Kreousa toward their own recognition scene. As we shall see, despite or even because of the near misses and thwarted murder plots that threaten the future of Athens, many interpreters conclude that Ion’s departure for Athens feels like a triumph. Ion finds out who his birth parents are after all. But the play has also shown that genealogy is one of those truths about people that, though rife with political significance, may only be contingently detected in practice. Rather than reassure us, then, the near misses around family vio-lence and misrecognitions have another effect. They make visible not the inefficacy but the unreliable and paradoxical character of the polis’s blood criterion for membership. Origins are a thing about which the city, and we, may well be mistaken.

Ion warily consents to Xouthos’s plan in the end. He prays that his unknown mother will turn out to be an Athenian so that he can enjoy parrhe-sia, the privilege of speaking frankly and freely in the city (672). But the chorus of women has overheard their discussion. They cite his foreign ungratefulness (702–4) and, equating the scheme with a foreign invasion, call for Ion’s death in the name of Athenian self-defense (719–22). The women disclose the secret plan to Kreousa and her old tutor. He convinces Kreousa to murder Ion to keep him out of her household, but the plot backfires when Ion realizes he is about to be poisoned (810–15, 845–46). The moment of recognition follows once Kreousa identifies a basket Ion is holding as the one she abandoned him in as a baby (1355).

The news leaves Ion rejoicing, but it is not all good, Kreousa explains. Not only was Ion born to her out of wedlock, he is actually Apollo’s son, not Xouthos’s, and born of a rape that she has concealed from everyone, even her own husband (1468–87). The revelation of the secret confuses Ion. Why would Apollo want to give his own son away? “[Apollo] does you a favor in setting you up in a noble house,” Kreousa explains. “If you were known as the son of the god you would never have got a house as your inheritance nor



Kasimis 11

the name of a father” (1539–53). Ion wishes to confront Apollo and hear it directly from him, but Apollo never appears in the play to give Ion or the audience a reason for his adoption by Xouthos. Instead, Athena arrives to affirm everything Kreousa has already told him and close the tragedy with a forecast (1574). Ion will go to Athens. His descendants will “settle in the island cities of the Kyklades and the territory on the sea-coasts,” giving “strength” to her land and settling parts of Asia and Europe (1584–88). The Ionians “will win glory for her and the Athenians,” and Xouthos and Kreousa will go on to have their own biological children, the progenitors of the Dorian tribe (1589–90).

For all this to occur, Athena warns Kreousa, “Keep it a secret that this boy is your son, so that Xouthos may happily retain his delusion and you too, lady, may go on your way enjoying your blessings” (1601–3). Ion now accepts the importance of blood to which he earlier objected and, as Xouthos’s son, prepares to move, with Athena as his escort. He accedes as well to the notion that he has a role to play in Athens’s imperialist destiny. Ion sets off for Athens not knowing how long he will have to live as a noncitizen before his descendants carry the banner of Athens to a new imperial outpost.19

In light of this reprisal of Ion’s immigration, I treat Ion’s earlier speech to Xouthos and its elucidation of his anxieties about living in Athens not as a typical dramatic obstacle en route to a happy ending but as a mirror and pre-diction of this final scene. Does Ion’s ultimate compliance neutralize the con-cerns he voiced earlier to Xouthos about being a metic when he did not know autochthonous Kreousa was his mother? It may. Or that earlier speech may yet ring in our ears. Ion never reconsiders his speech to Xouthos. Life as a metic will be his and it will be what he feared unless he learns to take Xouthos’s advice to love “talk” less and “be happy.” In other words, to give up any hope of parrhesia, the speech of truth and justice that comes with political freedom in Athens. If Xouthos is right, then Ion’s “true” blood and the Athenian insider status to which it purportedly corresponds will not deter-mine his experience of living in Athenian society.

Romanced by BloodXouthos’s view aside, life as a metic can hardly be called happy. Yet most readings of the tragedy argue that the play ends on a surprisingly upbeat note, even going so far as to call it a “happy” ending.20 Efforts to make sense of the Ion’s treatment of autochthony tend to foreground, even celebrate, the recognition scene between Ion and Kreousa.21 This interpretive move has hitherto distracted from the political problems that are created by the same




kinship tie’s immediate reconcealment.22 To illuminate the stakes of this general approach, I discuss below three issues that appear to ground this “romance” reading: the shape of the plot, readers’ expectations for the tragic genre, and an inattentiveness to the theme of metoikia.23

The anticipated and long-threatened reunion between Kreousa and Ion certainly drives the play’s plot. If Ion finally leaves Delphi to take his place in Athens’s line of rulers, it is because he has received information about the autochthonous heritage he inherits from his mother. But this is not just about Ion. The homecoming will also shore up Athenian hegemony. On Athena’s closing prediction, Ion will retroactively domesticate Ionia, a colony, that was controversial at the time of the play’s staging.24 His return will also ensure the continuity of the kinship calculus democratic Athens uses to jus-tify isonomia, the principle of political equality based on birth (from the Athenian earth). Insofar as the mother–child reunion leads to Ion’s departure for his city of origin, autochthony’s (and the polis’s) tenuous future does look secure. For many of Ion’s interpreters, then, by sending Ion safely on his way to Athens, the play does not undo but reinforces the autochthonous logic the city uses to constitute legitimate families and authentic citizens.

The romance reading is further supported by the perception that the Ion subverts the genre expectations of tragedy.25 Based on the presumption that tragedy is characterized by human destruction, much secondary commentary misidentifies the cessation of physical violence in the play with the resolution of the tragedy’s tension. By the time Ion’s reconcealment occurs, readers have already settled the play’s conflict. Kreousa and Ion’s plans to kill each other are set aside when they discover their autochthonous blood relation. And the peace that “true” blood knowledge apparently brings—discounting the colonization of Ionia it precipitates—gives the play a sense of closure.26 Ion “is successful at Delphi” in part because “he avoids killing his mother,” Carol Dougherty writes.27 Similarly, for Froma Zeitlin, “Ion’s story is a suc-cess. What threatened to become a typical tragic scenario in which misrecog-nition between kin led, as in the Bacchae, to a mother’s destruction of her child has been turned into a series of happy reversals” that “initiate those present into the happy forecast of the future.” The play does not lead to “destructive negation but to a joyful if complicated ending about parents and children, lost and safely found,” Zeitlin says.28

Not only do those “lost and safely found,” including their relatives, live complete and happy lives on these romantic accounts of birth family reunifi-cation: recognition by one’s biological family ensures one’s political subjec-tivity.29 So Ion’s autochthonous family reunion should restore his citizenship. And while birth-mother reunification does drive Ion’s move from Apollo’s



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sanctuary into Athenian political society, the ending’s twist renders a (political) restoration impossible with Athena’s introduction of a secrecy requirement. The aversion of death, moreover, does not mean the aversion of political con-flict.30 Readers for whom tragedy’s conflicts are legible only within an arc of murderous plotting are misled by the play’s avoidance of death and neglect to attend to the criticality that the play mobilizes both before and after the recogni-tion scene.31 Failure to account for the de-cognition of kinship that occurs at the end of the play enlists the Ion in a wholesale positive valuation of restoring biological identity—the very belief that sustains Athenian hegemony.

When romance readers displace the politics of metoikia from this rewrit-ing of autochthony, they reproduce Athens’s self-conception—an idealized vision in which the demos, like the play, is invulnerable to contamination by the metics that are otherwise everywhere. To see precisely how and from what the metic’s erasure diverts readers, it is necessary to explicate the broad lines of Nicole Loraux’s interpretation of the Ion. Loraux offers a bridge between the romance reading, which sees the Ion’s central conflict as one of violence averted through the recovery of biological identity, and the one developed here, in which the play troubles the autochthonous claim that blood settles questions of membership and belonging once and for all.

Loraux’s way out of the romance reading is to locate the play’s tragic dimension not in the plot, where others seek it to no avail, but in its autoch-thonous theme.32 The promising shift in register allows her to argue both alongside and against the familiar view that the recognition scene may resolve conflicts in the plot but that this in and of itself, she adds, does not alleviate the play’s tragic tension. In fact, the way Euripides “resolves” Ion’s incorpo-ration into Kreousa’s family, says Loraux, exposes the paradoxical, and therefore, tragic nature of an autochthonous narrative.33

What gives autochthony and, by extension, the Ion a tragic quality for Loraux is that it expresses a demand to repeat (over generations) what can only happen once (the original birth).34 Loraux focuses on the play’s treatment of gender, particularly its depiction of Kreousa, to illustrate this paradox. Kreousa captures the impossibility as well as the attractiveness of autochtho-nous birth because as a woman, she is both unnecessary to the original autoch-thonous birth (from earth) and necessary to the biological reproduction whose monitoring by Athenians will sustain the myth, and the Athenian people, in and over time. Thus, when Loraux concludes that “woman is restored to the shadows” by the end, with the “dilemma” of incorporating Ion into an Athenian household “only in extremis . . . resolved,” she invites us to see that the final scene functions as an instructive elaboration of the autochthony paradox.35 Indeed, Athena anchors the identity of the Athenians as a mythically pure and




colonizing people in a concealment of the very blood tie that the city claims to celebrate above all else. Kreousa’s so-called restoration to the private realm plays out the conflicted reality that is always implied by a myth premised on rejecting the women it depends on to perpetuate itself on (not from) the ground. The paradox of Kreousa’s “return to the shadows” is that it occurs in spite, if not because, of her importance to the public realm.

An open secret is not the same as a resolution. Yet Loraux does not consider the disorderly effects of a restoration that relies on a lie. Her analysis assumes in spite of the secret’s addition that the play simply mirrors the social meanings—of woman, metic, autochthonous, Athenian—that the myth of autochthony espouses in its core. Loraux’s fundamental claim that the Ion gains its tragic dimension by representing the impossibility of autochthonous birth may be ser-viced by a presumption of symmetry between text and myth. But such symme-try also implies that Euripides’s Ion is importing existing social definitions of woman rather than constituting them. This structuralist angle prevents Loraux from asking how woman, metic, or any other category comes to bear its mean-ings in the play. Kreousa may be emblematic of the paradoxical category of woman that autochthony constructs, but even this category’s construction is shown to be dependent on a secret, which, as the chorus demonstrated, may not stay hidden. The categories that autochthony produces no longer appear as sta-ble as Loraux’s restorative reading suggests.

My main quarrel with Loraux concerns this move away from her initial willingness to seek the politics of tragedy at the discursive level, where I insist new meanings are produced and not simply represented by the play. Rather than treat the Ion as an autochthony story par excellence, I read it as an active participant in the construction of new meanings. This involves ask-ing how the secret reconceives and does not just reflect the city’s ideology. Loraux provides the conceptual language to do so when she suggests that all tragedy is mythopoetic. One may extend the claim that the Ion, like all mytho-poesis, is engaged in reproducing an original (myth) anew: tragedy, whether as text or performance, always marks a difference between an original (autochthony) and its copy (the Ion).36 The central question is not, How does the Ion mimic the paradoxical maneuvers demanded by autochthony? It is rather, What does the Ion reimagine the Athenian politics of belonging to be?

If Loraux’s reading misses possibilities it licenses, it is because she focuses on the category of woman to the exclusion of the metic. If the reconcealment restores Kreousa to the private realm, as Loraux thinks it does, the ending of the Ion fulfills (Loraux’s) Athenian expectations by bringing full circle the inclusion-exclusion that makes Kreousa a woman and the Ion a tragedy. But this is only half the story. What Athena demands of Kreousa, she also demands



Kasimis 15

of Ion. And in Ion’s case, the reconcealment makes a metic out of an Athenian who should be a citizen. But an autochthonous son’s decline into metoikia is hardly reassuring. Where gender did not but could have, Ion’s metic predica-ment forces us to look again at how secrecy constitutes the political order in a regime like Athens. That Ion admires Athens is made clear in the play, but the question is why, in this rewriting of the autochthony myth, Athens needs Ion as such. What does it mean that autochthonous blood must be hidden to ensure that it will subsist as the supposedly reliable and universally sought-after measure of eligibility for membership in the democracy?

The function of the autochthony myth within the city is largely to guard against the kind of mingling and confusion of identities that blurs discrete lines of demarcation in the social order. To prevent this chaos, Athenians promote a civic ideology that insists social and political difference and the categories that signify it have meanings that preexist their production and figuration by the myth. Autochthony grounds difference in claims of nature—specifically, in earth and blood—to give these categories the appearance of an ontological status. The natural difference autochthony insists on between a metic and a citizen is one particular version of the city’s secret. Woman is not the only category to reveal the irreconcilable tensions that generate the polis’s ideas of belonging, exclusion, and political membership. Metics also rese-cure and reperform the value of autochthony as being at the expense of those outsiders who are at once and always the product of but also the condition for the democracy’s regeneration.

The metic perspective sheds light on something the play’s politics of gen-der imply and are implied in but do not obviously illuminate: if a native Athenian can pass as a metic, a metic can pass as an Athenian, for the so-called facts of blood (or sex) do not speak for themselves—and, as Ion told Xouthos, they do not determine a course of action either. This is a worrying thought from an Athenian hegemon’s perspective. Yet it is precisely what the marriage of imperialism and autochthony spawns while trying to suppress.37 When a polis colonizes but restricts full membership to natives on the basis of blood, it cannot but produce the metic, a figure whose inclusion-exclu-sion—whose ability to pass—bears the promise and the risk of this form of citizenship. In asking Ion and Kreousa to keep his autochthonous identity secret, Athena indicates that the polis’s seemingly inviolate identifications are really vulnerable performances of naturalized identifications. From this perspective, the Ion does not equivocate on or reproduce the claims of the traditional autochthony story, as other readers have suggested. Nor does it simply expose a tension between political membership as bloodright (status) and political membership as a lived experience (practice). Rather, the tragedy




exposes the Athenian practices that work to give an ontological status to the city’s categories of standing. As the next section attests, Ion’s fate makes manifest the violability of these categories and suggests it is foundational to Athenian politics.

The Tragedy of the SecretMy efforts to recover the political implications of the Ion’s treatment of autochthony have so far focused on the ways the tragedy draws on figura-tions of metoikia to destabilize settled views of hereditary attachments and publicize their known instability. If the play is a reworking of a traditional myth (mythopoesis), it should be seen to do more than criticize, however. To consider how the Ion reconceives of the democracy’s civic ideology by way of the concealment, we must think more carefully about the secret’s role. The secret does more than unsettle the traditional myth after all. It sits at the core of a new one.

The marriage and inheritance practices of the fifth-century context in which the play was produced may shed some light on the reasons for the secret, but they will not explain its constitutive effects on the myth. All the attractions of Erechtheus’s house—the name, the power, and the wealth—belong to Kreousa’s side. Because she has no brothers, Kreousa is epikleros, heir to her father’s oikos. Loraux suggests that Athenian law was probably particularly strict on issues of inheritance at the time of the tragedy’s production. In order for name and power to stay inside the family, standard practice would have ensured that a female heir marry her close relative. Kreousa’s marriage to a foreigner makes her situation abnormal from the perspective of family law and practice. For Loraux, this may be the play’s way of exploring some of the tensions in Athenian exceptionalism, particularly around gender. The fact that Kreousa “alone transmits to her son the name and power of the Erectheidai” highlights the polis’s commitment to kinship, its self-image as a clan or fam-ily.38 At the same time, however, the city does forge alliances with foreigners. When Kreousa, an Athenian royal, marries outside the clan for political rea-sons, she does something Athenians in the audience would recognize. She forges a political alliance as a reward to Xouthos for aiding Athens in war.

But Kreousa cannot perpetuate the autochthonous line by way of her mar-riage to Xouthos, which is (so far) fruitless. Kreousa’s marriage indicates that Athens from time to time must go outside of its autochthonous line to renew itself. Each time Kreousa and Xouthos’s union resorts to adoptive, extrabio-logical measures to procure an heir, as it does again with Athena’s forecast, the couple plays out the idea that the democratic polis cannot sustain itself through



Kasimis 17

a marriage of imperial power. This is not just to reproduce biologically but for the city to secure its capacity to maintain and innovate itself. It is a problem Xouthos acknowledges early in the play when he hopes for Kreousa’s even-tual and “painful” acquiescence to Ion’s incorporation into the family. Athena invokes it, too, when she intimates that Kreousa will remain childless unless she endures Ion’s inclusion as an apparent foreigner in the house of Erechtheus. Only then will she and Xouthos go on to have a koinon genos, a “common race” (1589), which the play outs, against convention, as a half-breed.

If Kreousa represents Athens here, as Loraux’s reading claims, what might the secret be saying about the city? Kreousa was raped by a god, bore an illegitimate child, and married a foreigner she needs to secure and define her future. This feminized Athens should be autonomous. Kreousa, after all, has an oikos of her own. But a female-headed household is apparently not ade-quate, given Xouthos’s role. The patriarchal polis depends on violence, for-eigners, trickery, and coercion to reproduce itself. There is no future for Athens without cultural mixing.

One reason for this may be that the Athenian political order is inevitably self-limiting. “The appeal to intergenerationality is always paradoxical,” writes Jacqueline Stevens, because it rests “on the naturalized rules of kin-ship that are produced by political societies,” the very same political societies that turn to kinship as their natural ground.39 The secret at the very center of the polis is that the blood ties it relies on are actually its own production.40 From a fifth-century perspective, it is likely that a woman in Kreousa’s situ-ation could bequeath her family’s inheritance (ta prosfata) only to a son of a legitimate union, which Ion is not. Only if Ion is thought to be the adopted son of Kreousa and the non-autochthonous, natural, but illegitimate son of Xouthos can he inherit and play a role in Athenian destiny. Through the secret that transforms him into Xouthos’s metic son, he inherits wealth (and military power) from Xouthos, though not full citizenship, and gains some status in the polis as well as its legacy.41

Here Loraux issues a useful caution, which she may not quite follow, that the play’s historical contexts cannot do the work of rendering the secret a necessary or understandable solution to the tragedy. The tensions created by the polis’s laws for membership are never actually solved, she reminds: “Xouthos is and remains an intruder who cannot therefore really be the legiti-mate father.” Echoing Ion’s worries, Loraux surmises that “in the eyes of the Athenians, given the standing of Xouthos, Ion could at most be regarded as an adopted son, unable to inherit the oikos of his adoptive father.”42 Loraux may be right about this. But the absence of a neat solution to the play makes the pursuit of the secret’s theoretical significance all the more appropriate.43




In the context of the Ion’s production, inheritance laws serve as just one instance of the range of institutional practices driving the insistence on and attachment to familial identity and its knowability. The desire Xouthos feels for his son’s return might also be an effect of the polis’s insistence on the ontological priority of blood ties.

Zacharia may bring us closer to the secret’s meaning when she suggests “the outsider must be allowed in if what lies within is to be rescued.”44 She rightly shifts attention back to the necessary role the foreigner plays in secur-ing autochthony’s perpetuity, but her language betrays the autochthonous view that there is a stable inside to begin with. From Zacharia’s perspective, the Ion’s criticism of autochthony on this issue amounts to little more than its empirical debunking. In other words, one effect of the Ion’s retelling is that it posits retroactively an Athenian founding in which foreigners were just absorbed into the polis (maybe even the demos) and a native was left out. Zacharia is not wrong, but her case and its dyadic structure may be driven by her exclusive focus on Xouthos’s foreignness. The future of autochthony cer-tainly needs Xouthos’s inclusion, but what of the performative foreignness Ion expresses? In the play, Xouthos and Kreousa’s procreation hinges only in part on Xouthos’s deceptive inclusion. It also requires Kreousa’s and Ion’s silence about Ion’s nativity and Ion’s living in Athens as Xouthos’s metic son.

In Foucault’s reading of the Ion, the future of Athens depends on an exclusion—of oracular pronouncements of truth—that then clears the way for Athena to found the city in a political order of parrhesia, the speech-act of political freedom.45 But this account depends, like other happy-ending readings, on regarding Ion’s return not as a metoikia but as a homecoming. Foucault sees “the truth of Ion’s birth and his right to exercise power now in Athens” in Athena’s closing pronouncement in decidedly rosier hues than Ion himself, who believed his life in Athens would lack parrhesia.46 Although Foucault is right to fasten on the generative power of Athena’s “truth under the reign of a share of illusion,” his sanguine view of Ion’s standing may imply the political order he takes it to generate is similarly idealized. Seen in terms of Ion, the play’s closing does not found the field of truth-telling, as Foucault insists, but rather grounds the autochthonous ideol-ogy that is needed to keep the political order in place.

Drawing on the work of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick may help us see pre-cisely how the secret of Ion’s autochthonous birth does not mirror but rather transforms Athens’s civic ideology. Sedgwick chronicles a historical shift in perceptions of sexuality that provides a useful frame for thinking about the competing conceptions of citizenship—status and practice—intertwined in the Athenian model. No longer a “matter of acts” to which “anyone might be



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liable,” sexuality came to mean a “function of stable definitions of identity (so that one’s personality structure might mark one as a homosexual, even, perhaps, in the absence of any activity at all).”47 What enables the shift to conceive of sexuality in terms of conscious identity rather than spectrums of behavior is the act of closeting, Sedgwick says, which moves sexuality out of an economy of activity and into an economy of knowledge.

“Closetedness” itself is a performance initiated as such by the speech act of a silence. . . . The speech acts that coming out, in turn, can com-prise are as strangely specific. . . . The fact that silence is rendered as pointed and performative as speech, in relations around the closet, depends on and highlights more broadly the fact that ignorance is as potent and as multiple a thing there is as knowledge.48

The concealment’s effect is that it reconceptualizes sexuality from a practice into a status. The speech-act of silence takes what could otherwise be under-stood as an activity open to a variety of interpretations and recasts it as an identity (hetero/homo) to be known with certainty about a person. When same-sex desire becomes a matter of being, rather than a behavior, Sedgwick suggests, it gains the status of a fact that can be either disclosed or hidden. As sex is to gender, blood in the Athenian case also operates as the natural and univocal ground of political status—an identity that can be known or kept hidden.

Critical to our discussion is the fact that silence is not neutral but always implies the oppression of one of the two identities in the dyad, as D. A. Miller explains. Silence operates as the “subjective practice in which the oppositions of private–public, inside–outside, subject–object are estab-lished, and the sanctity of the first term kept inviolate.”49 Closeting keeps heterosexual identity safe by reproducing it in static, oppositional terms. This effort at stabilization is precisely what Ion’s anticipated metic masquer-ade exposes as the city’s necessary and generative maneuver. If silence fixes identity binarisms so that one of its two epistemological identities stays abject, closeting Ion’s nativity works in the service of Athens’s autochtho-nous project even as it appears to betray it. By reconcealing his Athenianness, Ion secures the metic–citizen binary that is both the condition and product of the hegemony espoused by autochthony. The secret keeps up the appearance that all forms of membership, even if deprivileged, are inviolate identities. Naturalized identity is not merely a fact to be covered, recovered, discov-ered, or disclosed but a reminder of the city’s efforts to make statuses seem like facts. The Ion’s rewriting of autochthony exposes the Athenian




prioritization of a status-oriented citizenship and suggests it is the inevitable outcome of privileging circumstances of birth. This prioritization of status founds not only Athens, however, but a conception of citizenship in which all, even citizens, are vulnerable to threats of exposure.

ConclusionEuripides’s Ion unsettles the forceful presumption that the right blood estab-lishes citizenship in an unconventional way. It does not focus on a man with the wrong blood who nevertheless infiltrates Athenian society undetected by virtue of his active participation in the polis’s institutions. But there were many cases of this, as classical court speeches attest, as well as a politics of suspicion around such infiltration. In the Ion, practices of disclosure and concealment are exposed as the daily work that enables the city to give its self-serving and exclusionary guarantee that status, bestowed by blood, grounds a practice of citizenship. The Ion teaches that there are practices, like secret-keeping, that make political status look prior to and generative of political practice.

This deconstruction of the binary relation of status and practice is not con-fined to discussions of classical or blood-based citizenship. It applies to any political field that insists a legible, verifiable identity precedes and determines political visibility and citizenship activity. Undocumented activists engaging in a strategy of disclosure today invert Ion’s predicament, but they risk making the same point. Because Ion’s turn to the closet leads to a deprivileged status, the play is an importantly disorienting lens through which to assess the dis-avowed effects of any project that seeks emancipation through a logic of secrecy. When immigrants “come out illegal” and fashion themselves as cur-rently illegitimate but eligible for future recognition, they bring to mind Ion, whose anticipated transition from a status-less temple servant—without facts of birth, without even a name—to a political subject also moved through the closet door. As status-less political subjects engaged in political acts of dem-onstration, the undocumented do reveal the limits of a status-based citizen-ship. But their strategy, as Ion showed, also utilizes a discourse that is always already dyadically productive and stabilizing of a dominant identity.

Perhaps more significantly, coming out illegal generates new lines of divi-sion between forms of illegitimacy. The Dream Act privileges a particular tra-jectory to legal status when it emphasizes the lack of choice immigrants had as children entering the United States illegally. If the initial criminal act of entry is considered unintentional, it no longer appears decisive or indicative of the



Kasimis 21

model behavior that has since recommended inclusion. The difficulty with this logic, however, is that it underlies the anti-immigration position as well. In public discourse, the case for deportation often rests on the insinuation that illegal immigration expresses something ontologically true about a person: the act of illegal entry reveals one to be a lawbreaker as such. These seemingly divergent accounts both treat practices of illegality not as behaviors but as marks of character. In this they converge with the autochthonous insistence that blood, like character, is the prior and natural ground of citizenship prac-tice despite all evidence to the contrary.

Acknowledgments

For helpful suggestions and criticisms, I thank James Tully, Ross Carroll, and three anonymous reviewers for Political Theory. I owe special gratitude to Bonnie Honig for her generous comments on multiple drafts. Philip Baker, Ella Myers, Christopher Skeaff, Simon Stow, Bryan Garsten, Karuna Mantena, Paulina Ochoa Espejo, Hélène Landemore, Andrew F. March, Rachel Templer, Jay Elliott, Christopher Trinacty, Emily Greenwood, and Larry George offered stimulating thoughts and encourage-ment. Thanks to Sara Monoson and Mary Dietz for helpful discussions about an early incarnation of the project.

Author’s Note

Versions of this paper were presented at Yale, the 2011 Western Political Science Association meeting in San Antonio, and the University of South Carolina’s 2011 comparative literature conference on nostos.

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The author declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The author disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article: This article was completed with the sup-port of a Mellon Post-Doctoral Fellowship at the Whitney Humanities Center, Yale University.

Notes

1. About twenty states are considering laws similar to Arizona’s 2010 controver-sial SB1070. The Arizona law, partially blocked by the Ninth Circuit, makes it a crime to not carry immigration papers and requires police “when practicable” to




detain people they reasonably suspect are in the country illegally and to verify their status with federal officials.

2. See Jose Antonio Vargas, “My Life as an Undocumented Immigrant,” New York Times, June 22, 2011; and Maggie Jones, “Coming Out Illegal,” New York Times, October 21, 2010. The federal dream act offers a conditional pathway to legal residency for immigrants who entered the country illegally before the age of 16 and pursue higher education or military service.

3. In her analysis of immigrant participation in the 2006 demonstrations against new anti-immigration legislation, Cristina Beltràn draws on Jacques Rancière’s notion of dissensus to see their activity as an exercise of power that stages a “dispute about the very frame within which we see something as given.” Beltràn eventually criticizes a specific kind of immigrant self-fashioning that relies on a discourse of labor to “gain political visibility,” but her discussion may take for granted the unequivocally contestatory power of “acts of public disclosure”—and even the language of visibility—that seem rather to assume, not dispute, the frame in which undocumented immigrants are constituted as already invisible. See Beltràn, The Trouble with Unity: Latino Politics and the Creation of Identity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), 135, 139, 142.

4. For politically sensitive interpretations of the play, see Michel Foucault, The Government of Self and Others: Lectures at the Collège de France (London: Palgrave, 2010), and Arlene Saxonhouse, “Myths and the Origins of Cities: Reflections on the Autochthony Theme in Euripides’ Ion,” Greek Tragedy and Political Theory, ed. J. Peter Euben (Berkeley: University of California, 1986), 257–60. See note 19.

5. For attention to the symbolic politics of metoikia, see the work of Pierre Vidal-Naquet, “Oedipus between Two Cities: An Essay on Oedipus at Colonus,” in Myth and Tragedy in Ancient Greece, ed. Jean-Pierre Vernant and Pierre Vidal-Naquet (New York: Zone, 1990). Jacques Derrida models a way of reading clas-sical theory through the stranger, not the metic in particular, in Of Hospitality (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000). See also Nicole Loraux, Born of the Earth: Myth and Politics in Athens, trans. Selina Stewart (Ithaca: Cornell Univer-sity Press, 2000), 125–42.

6. Because politeia, often translated as citizenship, refers to both the juridical status of membership and “active participation in public life,” it is difficult to distinguish between the two meanings in the classical context, as Philip Brook Manville has argued. “That is because the status of membership in the Athenian community could not really be separated from the role the citizen played in it,” he explains. Manville, The Origins of Citizenship in Ancient Athens (Princeton: Princeton Uni-versity Press, 1990), 5. However, this distinction is precisely what I take the Ion to reveal. On the conflict between citizenship as a status and a practice in the



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contemporary context, see Linda Bosniak, The Citizen and the Alien: Dilemmas of Contemporary Membership (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2006), 117.

7. The population estimates for metics living in Athens at any period are multiplied from military figures, most of them Thucydides’s, whose numbers suggest metics were around a third of the hoplites fighting. At the beginning of the Pelopon-nesian War, there may have been 28,500 metics. A. W. Gomme, The Popula-tion of Athens in the Fifth and Fourth Centuries B.C. (Oxford: Blackwell, 1933), 18–19.

8. Vincent Rosivach, “Autochthony and the Athenians,” The Classical Quarterly 37, no. 2 (1987): 294–306, 297.

9. Athenians are referred to as “the demos of Erechtheus” in Homer (Il. 2.19) but by Sophocles’s time have become his descendants (Aj. 202). Rosivach sees this as a shift in the Athenian self-conception. Erechtheus was eventually seen as Athe-nians’ eponymous ancestor. Rosivach, “Autochthony and the Athenians,” 295.

10. Nicole Loraux, Born of the Earth, 10 and 33–34.11. The Periklean laws of 451/0, re-enacted in 403/2, prescribed double endogamy.

That is, qualification for citizen status hinged on birth from two citizens. The law may have relaxed during the Peloponnesian War, however. See Cynthia Pat-terson, “Athenian Citizenship Law,” The Cambridge Companion to Greek Law, ed. D. Cohen and M. Gagarin (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 267–89.

12. Here I draw on and invert Bonnie Honig’s point about the myth of an immigrant America. For Honig, the exceptionalist account “recuperates foreignness” for a national project by “drawing on and shoring up the popular exceptionalist belief that America is a distinctively consent-based regime, based on choice, not inheri-tance.” Honig, Democracy and the Foreigner (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), 75.

13. There is no consensus on the Ion’s production date but assessments posit it some-time between 415 and 412. I rely on Zacharia’s persuasive account that the play was produced in March 412. Zacharia, Converging Truths, 1–3

14. There were also “fears of a general imperial secession,” which fits with the “marked emphasis on Ionianism at the beginning and end of the play.” It is also worth noting that in March 412 the Erechtheum, the shrine to Erechtheus, “stood half-finished” and all parts of the Acropolis building project that “concerned the inalienable mythical past of the city” were suspended for financial reasons. Zacharia, Converging Truths, 1–3.

15. Like much Euripidean drama, the Ion is innovating because it engages in mytho-poesis, the radical reworking of traditional myths. Such mythmaking is pedagogical insofar as its departure from the traditional myth invites comparison that animates reflection on the productivity of all myth. Because tragedy is characterized by




ambivalence and paradox, its re-presentations of mythological traditions serve to illuminate the myths’ irreconcilable demands and multiple meanings in the polis.

16. The story of infant Erechtheus, of concern here, is actually one stage in the larger foundation myth of Athens, but Erechtheus, the second earthborn king of Athens, is the figure most explicitly associated with autochthony. Erechtheus is “probably the ‘adult double’ of the autochthonous infant Erichthonios,” but Euripides makes him Erichthonios’s descendant here. Zacharia, Converging Truths, 56, 60, 63.

17. Citations to the play indicate the Greek lines, which are the same as those in the English of Euripides, Ion, trans. K. H. Lee (Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1997), relied on for most of the essay.

18. Although the play does not call Xouthos a naturalized citizen, the tragedy would have brought this possibility to mind. In Perikles’s time, only the demos had the power to make a foreigner a citizen by a decree of the entire assembly. The classical approach to naturalization avoided granting membership to average for-eigners who might actually use it and instead bestowed citizenship to benefactors as a way of facilitating diplomatic objectives. In the view of Ion, naturalization would not insulate an outsider from Athenian prejudice. The division between the autocthonous and the foreign-born remains and trumps social and legal equality. See M. J. Osborne, Naturalization in Athens (Brussels: AWLSK, 1981), 5–6.

19. Thucydides reports that the Ionians asked Athenians, their “mother-city,” to be their leaders after the Persian Wars, and Athenian acceptance led directly to the formation of the Delian League or Athenian Empire (1.95).

20. In addition to Nicole Loraux’s reading, Zacharia’s Converging Truths is an exception to this conventional view. Zacharia writes, “We are not given a wholly neat and tidy (happy) ending; we are left with loose ends: Xouthos will remain deceived; Ion will remain illegitimate.” Converging Truths, 99. See Nicole Loraux, The Children of Athena, trans. Caroline Levine (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), 184–236. See also George B. Walsh, “The Rhetoric of Birthright and Race in Euripides’ Ion,” Hermes (1978), 301–15.

21. Critics who think the play is ambiguous on and in some cases sympathetic to the nativist ways the polis creates divisions include Carol Dougherty, “Democratic Contradictions and the Synoptic Illusion of Euripides’ Ion,” ed. Josiah Ober and Charles Hedrick, Demokratia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996), 249–70; Loraux, Children of Athena; Rush Rehm, Greek Tragic Theatre (Lon-don: Routledge, 1992), 131–47; Saxonhouse, “Myths and the Origins of Cities: Reflections on the Autochthony Theme in Euripides’ Ion”; Froma Zeitlin, “Mys-teries of Identity and Designs of the Self in Euripides’ Ion,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society 215 (1989): 144–96.

22. This is perhaps starkest in the case of Zacharia, who is alert to the range of conflicts in the play but maintains that “Athena’s appearance” does not make a “serious



Kasimis 25

claim to any directorial function” because “she only comes at the point when all the serious conflicts have already been resolved (e.g., the prevention of the killing of son by mother and mother by son).” Converging Truths, 146.

23. Susan Lape calls the Ion a “family romance of Athenian racialism.” Race and Citizen Identity, 95, 98.

24. For a discussion of the play in the context of Athenian imperialism, see Zacharia, Converging Truths.

25. Donald J. Mastronarde emphasizes that tragedy was an innovative and changing genre in the classical period in The Art of Euripides: Dramatic Technique and Social Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 44, 47, 51.

26. The costs to Ion’s citizenship in Athens do signal autochthony’s violent effects—the structural exclusions and imperialism and its costs to human life.

27. Dougherty thus looks elsewhere to salvage the Ion’s tragic sensibility in spite of its “happy ending” and finds it in its use of Delphi, which “functions in Greek tragedy as a dramatic topos . . . where things work out . . . and contradictions can be reconciled” (Dougherty, “Democratic Contradictions,” 263). Dougherty, “Democratic Contradictions,” 264. For a view that opposes reading the play as a “Delphic tragedy,” see Loraux, Children of Athena.

28. Zeitlin, 154. The discourse of happiness is also used by Saxonhouse, though she rightly senses, but does not investigate, the “disquieting tone to the successful and happy conclusion to the plot.” Saxonhouse, “Myths and the Origins of Cit-ies,” 272, 257–60.

29. Ion’s repatriation signals his compliance with Athena’s instruction and her invo-cation of Athenian destiny but little more as far as his own sentiments are con-cerned. There is no textual evidence to suggest that Ion goes home happy or that he will live a happy life there.

30. We could distinguish between visions of tragedy as conflict (political) and trag-edy as suffering (ethical). See Bonnie Honig, “Antigone’s Two Laws: Greek Tragedy and the Politics of Humanism,” New Literary Theory 41 (2010): 1–33.

31. Such an emphasis on violence leads Dougherty, for example, to argue that the recognition scene not only “avoids murder” but “restores all participants in timely fashion to their proper and productive identities.” The play, she and oth-ers suggest, is restitutive not destructive, and for this reason quite unlike a trag-edy. Dougherty, “Democratic Contradictions,” 264. Even Zacharia calls the end “superficially” happy but tempers her assessment by seeing it as a means to an end. For the play’s logic “is not just there to lead to the happy ending.” It “has a thought-provoking function of its own.” Zacharia 148–49.

32. Loraux, Children of Athena, 184.33. Ibid., 230.34. Ibid., 195.




35. Ibid., 204.36. This makes tragedy an especially interesting mode for exploring the theme of

originality.37. For a discussion of the play’s twinning of imperialism and autochthony, see

Dougherty, “Democratic Contradictions.”38. Loraux, Children of Athena, 203.39. Jacqueline Stevens, Reproducing the State (Princeton: Princeton University

Press, 1998), xiii.40. For this reason, I think Zeitlin’s use of the phrase “mysteries of identity” (also

the title of her chapter on the Ion) to argue that the play represents the self as per-formed does well to point to the fragility and uncertainty surrounding subjectiv-ity, but it does not see the political implication that Athens maintains and services from the uncertainty and the appearance of verifiability rather than verifiability itself.

41. Similarly, K. H. Lee has argued that the secret is necessary “because there is little likelihood that Xouthos would allow an adopted child [Ion] to exclude from his inheritance any son which may be born to him later.” See Lee’s commentary on lines 71–73 of the tragedy in Euripides, 166–67.

42. Loraux, Children of Athena, 204n85.43. It is surprising that Loraux does not see this and relegates her discussion of the

secret to a provocative footnote: “Thus, read in the light of the present, Xouthos’ illusion (1602)—which prevents the disclosure that Ion is Kreousa’s son—is unfortunate, since the city as an entire community will be involved, and Ion will continue to be considered an intruder.” Children of Athena, 200n69. See also Loraux, Born of the Earth, 20.

44. Zacharia, Converging Truths, 101.45. Foucault, The Government of Self and Others, 145.46. Foucault, The Government of Self and Others, 144.47. Eve Sedgwick, Epistemology of the Closet (Berkeley: University of California

Press, 2008), 83.48. Ibid., 3.49. D. A. Miller, The Novel and the Police (Berkeley: University of California Press,

1988), 207, cited in Sedgwick, Epistemology, 67.

About the Author

Demetra Kasimis is an assistant professor of political science at California State University, Long Beach. She is writing a book about the figure of the metic and ancient Greek political thought, provisionally titled Imitating Citizens: Classical Greek Theory and the Politics of Immigration.



The Tragedy of Blood-Based Membership: Secrecy and the Politics of Immigration in Euripides' Ion

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